


Poet

by ColorfulStabwound



Series: The Death of Draco Malfoy [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comfort, Crying, Dior - Freeform, Drinking, Hurt, M/M, Malfoy Manor, Morocco - Freeform, POV Second Person, Poet - Freeform, Running Away, cavalli
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 22:28:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2286726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorfulStabwound/pseuds/ColorfulStabwound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finding yourself when you are impossibly lost is a difficult process, but you are working on it, and you think you are ready to take your first steps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poet

**Author's Note:**

> All of Theodore's attributes are graciously inspired and borrowed from my one of a kind Theodore Nott muse, Unkissed.

When people give you advice on married life you find yourself inwardly rolling your eyes and mentally discarding whatever it is that they think they have to say. You would never be so presumptuous to dish out knowledge on such a thing and you think that you find it offensive on some level. Personal advice from people who know nothing about you is a farce; a laughable fallacy of self. One could argue that you are simply an arrogant asshole who thinks himself above the advice of strangers; they would not be wrong.

 

You’ve been drifting through marriage for a year and some change and if anyone is keeping count, it’s been a little more than two since the war ended and you were declared a free man. It’s taken you a long time to find yourself and even longer to find the nerve to begin questioning your life up until this point. Since you were born you have been following someone else’s rules and living a life that was decided for you, not given to you. You cannot say that you’ve been a helpless victim in the span of you life, but you have never had the unguarded pleasure of choosing your own path. For as long as you can recall you have been shaped and molded into this perfect specimen of pureblood aristocrat that can be seen now, and you would like to say that if it wasn’t for your mother, you would have long ago abandoned the job.

 

But you would be lying, of course.

 

You have always been weak. Even as you aged and sprouted, you somehow clung to the little boy that you once were. Finding yourself when you are impossibly lost is a difficult process, but you are working on it, and you think you are ready to take your first steps.

 

At last.

 

It is an overcast afternoon over tea with Daphne when his name comes up the first time. It has been so long since you have heard it spoken beyond the walls of your mind that it startles you. Daphne’s lips twist in all-knowing amusement, but she carries on as if she saw nothing at all.

 

“Blaise received a postcard from Theodore the other day.” She says, and then her piercing gaze cuts directly to you, as if she’s gauging your reaction.

 

“Is that so?” You say thickly and swallow your own tongue.

 

“Mm, yes. Seems he’s been traveling and really immersing himself in the muggle world.”  She’s still watching you; this time over the rim of her teacup and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say she was hiding a smirk behind that flowery china obstruction she was holding.

 

You feel mildly detached from the conversation as if you are a spectator and not a participant. Your ears have been ringing since she mentioned him and your pulse is thudding along at a quickened pace that you hope she doesn’t notice. Why would she bring him up now, after so long? It wasn’t like you’d ever given any outward projection of interest where Theodore Nott was concerned, but then again, Daphne has always been far too receptive for her own good.

 

“How’s my sister?” She asks offhandedly as she glances at her cuticles.

 

“I haven’t the faintest.” You reply a bit more honestly than you probably should have and then you bow your head because, despite your distaste for marriage, this is still her sister you are talking about.

 

“Don’t you dare send her back here when you’re done with her.” She adds and her gaze narrows as it fixes on you with more intent than was spoken.

 

After that you both share a laugh and it feels so familiar that you are momentarily taken back to better days. Daphne has been your friend for as long as you can remember, one of the very few that can actually claim that title. Her vindictive streak is a large part of what kept you going during your years at Hogwarts and if it wasn’t for her creative storytelling you would probably still have Pansy Parkinson clamped on your arm like a black widow spider. You owe her a lot and somewhere inside you feel somewhat guilty for your lack of love for her sister.

 

“Seriously, Draco. I mean it. You _owe_ me.” She sets her cup and saucer down and crosses her arms and there is a long moment where she glares across the table at you and her expression practically screams **‘Don’t fuck this up!’** Your head bows and your gaze drops to the cooling contents of your teacup and you struggle to tell her that you don’t mean to be the way that you are.

 

“Anyways, Blaise told me that Theo sends him postcards from exotic locations now and then.” She’s speaking quickly and waving her hand as if she understands what you are trying to say and you are grateful that she knows you as well as she does.

 

You nod slowly and sip tea that feels cold on your tongue. When you leave her, she hugs you tightly and quietly whispers in your ear to talk to Blaise and when you return to the manor, the chill in the corridors hardly reaches you.  Upstairs in your chambers you change out of the crisp navy Dior suit that fits you like it was made precisely with your frame in mind. This particular suit is your favorite and will signify one of the most powerful budding romances in your entire life. Several years from now Dior will be the most captivating mistress you’ve ever entertained—The _only_ one, if we’re being honest.

 

 

 

When you stand on the balcony your eyes survey the grounds that spread out in the darkness all around you. There is a cool breeze that ruffles your hair and unheeded goose bumps pucker your flesh delicately up and down your bare arms. You’re thinking about him, but that isn’t anything new. You find yourself thinking about him a lot, even though his absence in your life is absolute. You want to hate him for leaving before things got really bad, but you can’t find it in yourself to do so. When it comes down to it, you are jealous that he had the strength to put himself first when it mattered the most. You weren’t really friends towards the end, at least not like you were before he kissed you out there on the lawn and ruined everything. And although it’s taken you a long time to come to terms with it, you miss him.

 

Your conversation with Blaise two days later is eerily similar to the one you had with Daphne and you can’t help but wonder if they’ve been exchanging notes or perhaps conspiring; it would be _just_ like a pair of Slytherins and you would hardly be surprised.

 

“The postcard was from Morocco, you should have seen the bird that delivered it.” Blaise comments casually as he lunges towards you, sabre in hand and a smile on his face.

 

“Is that so?” You remark casually as you counter-parry his move with an almost bored air.

 

You’ve been fencing since you were big enough to hold a child’s foil, and while Blaise is by far the most formidable opponent you’ve encountered, he’s nowhere near as disciplined as you are with a blade.

 

Later, after you have bested him in the match, you will feign disinterest as he pulls a colorful postcard from within his coat pocket. He’s wearing a Slytherin-worthy smirk and you can’t help but smirk back as unspoken understanding passes between you. 

 

“I lied before, when I told you that we can’t always get what we want.” His voice is lower and somehow more serious, and the smile curving his mouth falters just a little bit.

 

A memory of a long-past night at the stables comes to mind and you are momentarily taken back to the hopelessness of your former self.

 

“You don’t have to say anything, just take it.” He’s holding out the postcard to you while telling himself that he’s doing the right thing. Blaise has never been one to interfere with other people’s relationships, and he didn’t much fancy himself a destroyer of marriages, but he’s known you a long time.  You would have had to be blind to miss the friction and estrangement between you and Theo, and if this simple act would help you piece yourself back together, then who was Blaise to deny it?

 

Your fingers twitch at your side as you stand there, pale gaze fixed on the postcard. You want nothing more than to snatch it out of his hand but you don’t, although you do finally take it from him after several more agonizing moments.

 

  
“Just read it.” He says to you before he steps into the floo and rests a hand on your shoulder that feels oddly comforting.

 

“I know you and Daphne are up to something.” You say and fix him with a raised brow and a knowing smile.

 

“Prove it.” He calls as he is whisked away in a swirl of green flames and you laugh lightly to yourself and the empty room closes in all around you.

 

You tell yourself that you want to wait until you are back upstairs in your private quarters before you look it over and your self-restraint is stretched and tested like never before. You purposely take your time getting there and by the time you reach the top of the stairs you want to dash down the long stretch of corridor to your chambers; but you don’t.

 

You’re sitting in an armchair near the fireplace when you finally slide the postcard out of your breast pocket and flip it over in your hands. You immediately recognize his tidy scrawl and a hollow pain jolts you behind your ribs.

 

_Greetings from Morocco!_

_I think I am in love. The weather is nice, the atmosphere is relaxed and there are cafés on just about every corner. It’s a writer’s dream! You really should get away and come for a visit sometime; we could get up to some fun. I miss you all, but I don’t miss dreary London. Give everyone my love, and seriously, you should think about joining me._

_Take care,_

_Theo_

You read the short script so many times that the words start to slide out of focus and when you lower your hands to your lap you are momentary lost in your own head. It was one thing to think about him in the protective confines of your own mind but to have solid proof of his existence in the outside world, right here in your hands, was almost too much to take. He sounds happy and you find yourself coloring with jealousy and you suddenly feel six years old all over again.

 

The night slips between your fingers and before you know it the sun is just beginning to peek out over the horizon. You still have more trouble sleeping than you would care to admit, and the sleepy hours when the world closes its eyes has become _your_ time. Your thoughts are everywhere and you feel more confused than you did before you talked to Blaise.  

 

An hour later you are pouring yourself a cup of coffee in the kitchen and the sun has finally made an appearance. The manor is quiet like death and you are silently thankful that you appear to be the only one in this family who deems it acceptable to be awake at this hour.

 

“It tastes better if you add a little brandy.” Her voice startles you and you nearly choke on the swallow of hot coffee in your mouth.

 

“I doubt that.” You reply coolly and eye her from behind your coffee cup.

 

She’s leaning against the doorway; still dressed in the god awful Cavalli that she left the manor in the night before and you can’t help but arch an amused brow in her direction.

 

“Coming or going? It’s becoming increasingly difficult to tell.” Your lips twist into a smirk as you sip thoughtfully from your mug and you take to leaning against the counter.

 

“Your concern flatters me, Draco darling.” She enters the kitchen fully and makes her way towards you, the lazy smile on her lips telling you she is at least a little bit intoxicated.

 

You remember the postcard tucked into your breast pocket and find yourself frowning as she pours herself a cup of coffee and adds a healthy splash from a bottle she’d retrieved from the cupboard opposite. It was difficult to accept that this was what your life had become when you had solid proof that happiness and escape were both attainable. You feel momentarily guilty for dragging Astoria down into your hole with you and for just a moment you feel more connected to her than you ever have since the two of you met.

 

“Circe, who died?” She’s eyeing you sidelong as she leans against the counter beside you, the heels she wore making your height difference far less noticeable.

 

“Here, let me help you out with that. Just this once.” She smiles and offers you a wink and leans over to pour an alarmingly large amount of liquor into your coffee cup.

 

“Thanks.” You murmur and you don’t even object. Just this once.

 

Although you would never admit it, the spiked coffee actually doesn’t taste half bad and before you know it you’ve finished off the entire bottle of brandy between the two of you. Later you will think back on this moment with Astoria and it will be the happiest that you ever are together. Even though it’s just a couple of drinks and some snarky insults, you’re bonding and at least for one night, you don’t have to think about your obligations to your family or your wife or anything at all.

 

“I’m sorry for dragging you down with me.” You say some time later. The sun is higher now and soon your mother and father will be down for breakfast. You aren’t drunk, but you are comfortably numb and it is a welcome escape and you grimly realize why your wife has taken up the habit with such fervor.

 

“Don’t be. I’m a very good swimmer. Besides, I love spending your money on Cavalli. Especially since it drives you crazy.” She winks at you and you share a laugh; the first honest and true laugh that you’ve ever exchanged with her.

 

Astoria had her faults, and there would be a point in the future when you abhorred her lifestyle, but at the end of the day, she was okay. It wasn’t her fault that she had no idea what she was getting herself into when she married you.

 

“Cavalli is a troll.” You mutter sourly and you don’t know it yet, but this would be a running joke between the two of you for years and years to come.

 

“I’ve got to go.” You say some time later and you frown into your now empty coffee cup.

 

“I know.” She cuts in immediately, and you can almost detect the hint of sadness in her voice.

 

“I’m sorry.” You add a bit lamely and you discard your mug on the counter slowly, like a distraction.

 

“I’ll be here when you get back.” Her words are surprisingly straight and they chill you down into your bones. When you turn to face her she’s smiling, although the expression doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

 

“Why?” You ask against your better judgment and you’re facing her now, a bewildered and confused version of yourself that you present to the world around you.

 

“Nowhere else to be.” She replies with a wry grin and then she shrugs a shoulder as if casually signaling the end of this little heart to heart.  Her hand rests on your forearm for just a moment and you try your best to smile back and you hate yourself for destroying yet another human being.

 

“Don’t wait too long Darling, I just might spend all your money in your absence. Cavalli for everyone!” The moment between you has passed and Astoria has once again transformed into the lofty little girl with the alcohol problem that you’ve come to know her as. You turn to watch her leave and she raises a hand and waves over her shoulder at you as she saunters out of the kitchen, leaving you to your own devices once again.

 

You follow her out of the kitchen not long after and make your way back upstairs. You tell yourself that you should sleep, but you cannot and instead you sit down at your desk and pull out a crisp sheet of parchment bearing the Malfoy insignia. The letter you pen is the most difficult thing you’ve had to do in your life and you can’t help but think you’d rather take a strong-handed crucio from The Dark Lord himself over disappointing your mother any day of the week.

 

_Dear Mother,_

_I know that these words are going to disappoint you and it is important to me that you know that it has never been my intention to do so. I know that you only ever have my best interests at heart, but sometimes I wonder if you even know me, the REAL me at all. I’ve tried to accept my fate and step into my role as the next head of this family, and although you may not be able to see it, I am failing terribly. I have to leave Mother, and I am sorry. I don’t know when I’ll be returning but please do not try and stop me. This is something that I need to do. I’ve tried it your way Mother, now let me try it mine. I know it is difficult to understand and may sound childish to hear, but I just…want to live._

_Never forget that I love you,_

_Draco_

 

When you are done you stare at the letter for a long time and you know that it will never be enough and that she will never fully understand. What you do not know yet is that she _does_ understand and has been expecting this day for a long time. Years down the road she will sit with you in the garden and tell you that you were never a disappointment; that you were the greatest son a mother could ever hope for and you will finally be well and truly free.

 

You leave the letter on your desk when you get up and then you disappear into the walk in closet where you will carefully regard your clothing. What does a person wear when they are running away from home? How should a person dress when they are leaving behind everything that they have ever known for a dream and a wish?  Eventually you decide on the Navy Dior, as if the choice had not been clear already.

 

When you step into the floo the last thing you see is your vacant room and you can’t help but wonder if you’ll ever see it again, or if it would be somehow different when you did.  The green flames whisk you away and your eyes slide shut and the vague sense of nausea is a welcome relief.

 

 ~@~

 

“I need your help.” You step out of the floo at Daphne’s and immediately start talking, absently brushing soot from your jacket as you cross the room towards where she sat; curled up in an oversized armchair by the window with a book.

 

“You need help burying the body?” Her brow raises and she somehow looks amused, even though she is still gazing down at the book in her lap.

 

“What..? No. I need a portkey. Quickly and discreetly.” Under normal circumstances you would laugh at her grim joke, but you are shaking and on limited time before someone discovers you are missing and so you get straight to the point instead.

 

“And you came to me because _you_ know that I’m on… _friendly_ terms with Vaisey.” When she finally does look up at you she’s smirking, and you know that look all too well.

 

Daphne is going to help you.

 

 

“I wouldn’t ask, but I need it now. And fast.” You sink down into the chair opposite hers and heave a shaky sigh. You can feel her watching you and you know the questions are coming.

 

“You really did kill her and now you are running away, is that it?” She uncurls herself from the seat and stands up, her gaze still wholly fixed on you like she expects an answer.

 

“I haven’t killed anyone.” You mutter, and the validity of that statement goes much deeper than just this moment.

 

“Hmm, pity.” She replies airily as she kneels down in front of the fireplace and tosses a handful of powder on the flames.

 

You watch as she makes a fire call and you are as impressed as ever with her creative storytelling. Daphne was put in Slytherin for a reason, and you know you made a smart choice all those years ago when you befriended her. If you didn’t know Daphne you would sit there wondering how she knew where you were going when you hadn’t mentioned it, but since you do know her, it hardly raises even the slightest brow.   When she is finished she stands back up and crossed the room to return to her chair and her dark eyes rest on you once again.

 

“You do realize that he’s probably somewhere by the coast, don’t you?” Her brow arches delicately as she speaks and despite the smugness of her tone, her smile is genuine.

 

“Obviously.” You mutter and then you both laugh because it is so bloody typical that you can’t help yourselves.

 

You’ve always hated the beach, every since you were a small child and you would not be remotely surprised to find him sitting right at the edge of some stupid ocean.

 

“Your portkey wont be ready for another couple of hours, how long before one of your handlers turns up here looking for you?” She tilts her head as she speaks as if she’s making some sort of joke, and the truly funny part is that she is more correct than you would care to admit.

 

“Doesn’t matter.” You reply and then you slide down enough so that you are somewhat reclined in your chair. Your lack of sleep the night before is suddenly catching up to you and you can’t think of a more perfect way to pass a couple of hours than to nap.  You’re asleep sooner than you realize and Daphne merely smiles as she watches you, pleased to see you finally doing something productive and useful with your life; even if it _is_ running away to chase a ghost of your past.

 

When you open your eyes again Daphne is standing over you with a hand on your arm. She’s blurry around the edges but she’s smiling and you stifle a yawn as you sit up.

 

“It’s come while you were sleeping. You’re lucky he’s not in Indonesia still. International portkeys are a bit trickier.” She smiles again as she curls up in her seat, this time pulling a tasseled blue throw over her bottom half.

 

“Thank you.” You say and offer her a smile that you hope can at least somewhat convey how grateful you are for her.

 

“Ah. You’d do it for me.” She says and waves a dismissive hand.

 

“This wont take you directly there, you’ll have some work to do before you find what you’re looking for.” She slides a small box towards you as she speaks and then sits back to watch the show.

 

“It doesn’t matter, I’ll find him.” You say and your eyes are already fixed on the box that contains your most uncertain future.

 

Your heart is pounding in your ears as you ease the top off of the box now in your hands and the breath catches in your throat as you stare down at a gold plated whistle.  When you glance up at her with uncertainty in your eyes she shakes her head slowly and you understand.  It is shaking fingers that reach into the box and touch the whistle and as that familiar pull hooks you somewhere behind your navel, you can’t help but feel utterly terrified of failing.

 

~@~

 

You are in Morocco three days before you find him. Three days of stumbling through a foreign land that is a world all its own. The food is nothing like you are used to, the muggles are annoyingly pleasant and the mint tea is beginning to make you second-guess your singular love of coffee. Its difficult at first and you quickly realize that you’ve never _truly_ had to take care of yourself. As the time passes you grow impatient and self-doubt starts creeping back in.

 

Maybe this entire thing was a mistake. Maybe you should return to the manor and beg your parents for forgiveness.

 

Eventually you come to your senses and discard the ideas of going home. Failure is not an option at this point. You are a Malfoy and you will see this adventure through to the end even if it kills you. And it might yet.

 

 

It is not a beach where you find him, but a café. You’ve been checking each one meticulously for two days, and _fuck,_ are there are a lot of the damn things around.

 

He’s sitting in a booth by the window when you spot him and he doesn’t look up as the small bell affixed above the door chimes your arrival. Your feet are suddenly like lead or stuck to the floor beneath them and you are not prepared for what seeing him again does to you. As if sensing your presence his gaze lifts away from the journal he’d been scribbling in and immediately focuses on you. Your throat is dry and the pulse pounding in your ears and against your chest is like palpable nonsense.

 

The handful of seconds that tick past as you stand there seem insignificant and you don’t even notice that time is even still forging on. You’ve thought about this moment for so long and now that you are here you don’t know what to do.  It’s Theodore who moves first and before you can even register it he’s scrambling out of his booth and stalking towards you. 

  
“What are you doing here?” He hisses and you hardly feel the press of his fingers as he grabs at you and drags you back out into the street.

 

“Draco, why are you here?” His tone is impatient bordering on frantic and although you don’t voice it, you can completely relate to that range of emotion.

 

“I needed to see you.” You manage and your eyes are blown out to the color of brushed metal and your head feels like it might explode at any moment.

 

“Why? Why now?” His fingers are still clamped on your arm and you are only now registering how warm his skin feels; even through the layers of your clothing.

 

“I..” Your teeth start to chatter and you quickly clamp your mouth shut and you don’t’ know what to say. He stares up at you with an intensity that you feel down the center of your soul and then it happens. Something clicks behind his eyes and his expression instantly softens and the painfully tight grip he has on you eases marginally.

 

“I’ve been trying to forget you for a long time Draco, and if you’re here for some stupid selfish reason then just go. I don’t want to hear it.” When he speaks his eyes plead with you in ways that his words cannot. The tired and strained tone of his voice pains your insides and you hate yourself because you finally realize that he’s just another in a long line of people that you have destroyed with your stains. A small part of you wishes that you had never come here, if only to save him from reliving the grief that you have clearly caused him over the years. But the larger, selfish part of you is elated that you came and wouldn’t trade it for the world.

 

“That’s the problem with us, isn’t it? I’ve been trying to forget you too, but I can’t.” You smile at him then because despite the seriousness of the moment passing between you, you are stupidly and undeniably happy to finally be able to admit it. To him and yourself.

 

His brows knit together in confusion and you have to laugh even though there are tears at the corners of your eyes that you don’t remember producing.  The hand on your arm slides away and you don’t even give him a moment to stop and think about the how or the why as you throw both of your arms around him and hold him like you’ll never let go. 

 

“Why’d you wait so long?” He says as his arms fold around you and his voice is like a breathy sob in your ear that breaks your heart.

 

“I had to find me first.” Your reply is painfully honest and you feel him shaking in your arms and you hold him tighter.

 

You stand this way for a long time; so wrapped up in one another that the world around you ceases to exist. When he finally pulls back to peer up at you his eyes are glassy and red and still manage to see right through you.

 

“I really hate you.” He says around a sniffle and then you both laugh because never had a truer word ever been spoken between you.

 

“You too.” You add with a wry grin and then you kiss him before you can think better of it and when he stiffens instinctively it is temporary. And just like that you are both transported to the past, only this time it is re-written the way it _should_ have been if you had been more than a scared little boy.

 

~@~

 

“Of course I’ll change the names and fictionalize events here and there.”  You’re lying in a hammock beneath a large blue and white umbrella and he’s lying against you in the crook of your arm, ever-present journal in his hands. You lower your sunglasses enough to peer over at the pages that were covered in his writing, an amused smirk twisting your lips.

 

It’s been a year since Morocco and you have been with him every minute since. Your reunion of sorts had only been the beginning and now you know, beyond all certainty, that there is nowhere else you’d rather be. Theodore Nott permanently altered your life the moment he stepped into it so many years ago, and although it may have taken you an obscenely long time to come to terms with that fact, you are grateful every day for his existence. You suppose in a round about way that you have your father to thank for the life you have now, although you doubt that he would consider that a _good_ thing.

 

Currently you are in Hawaii, lounging on a fucking beach, of all places. White sand and water almost as blue as his eyes; you don’t know why, but it does something to you. Theodore has been talking more and more about wanting to write a novel and what better place for inspiration than somewhere so far from London that your previous life can’t find you?

 

“You will live forever on these pages.” He says and brings your thoughts back to the present.

 

Your fingers trail over his bare arm absently and you smile and press a kiss to his temple. 

 

“I’m not sure how thrilled I am about all of the world reading me.” You say but you chuckle anyway.

 

He tips his head back enough to look up at you and the piercing honesty and love that you see mirrored there in vast oceans of cerulean nearly stop your heart.

 

“You will live forever.” He says quietly and smiles up at you.

 

The sun is just starting to lower beyond your umbrella’s reach and his shadow covers yours like they are sewn together. When your arm folds him closer, the hammock swings gently beneath your combined weight and he shoots you a warning glare that makes you laugh and want to shake it even more. You’ll remain where you are, tangled up in him and together you’ll watch the sun set. When he lies you down in bed at night the connection that passes between you threatens to consume you and every day that you are together your soul intertwines with his more tightly. You are not foolish enough to believe that you will never hurt him again, you are still who you are after all; despite how far you’ve run from that part of your life. But for now, you are content in living for every moment. Every touch, every kiss; and you know, beyond all certainty, that you will always find each other.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Castles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5341493) by [unkissed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed)
  * [Castles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9477407) by [unkissed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed)




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